


My Heart

by lesdemonium (winnerstick)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jealous Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 01, Sickfic, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, briefly but it's there, does that count when you're not boyfriends but you're fucking, it counts bc i say it counts, really when i say angst like there's a tiny bit of angst and that's it, sorry don't leave because of my dumb tags, stefon voice this fic has everything, this is largely just a ton of fluff with a bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23855536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winnerstick/pseuds/lesdemonium
Summary: Things were different after the mountain.For one thing, when Jaskier met up with Geralt again, it was with a refugee princess in tow. Somehow this wasn’t surprising, given the way Geralt’s life often went, but it did create a different dynamic.Beyond that, though, Geralt was different. Softer, somehow. Like he was actively trying to smooth away his hard edges, and his face often constricted with the pain of it.Jaskier didn’t quite know what to do with it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 63
Kudos: 1371





	My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> here, have some fluff in these trying times. i decided this was a better way to spend my night than sleeping. i stand by that decision.

Things were different after the mountain.

For one thing, when Jaskier met up with Geralt again, it was with a refugee princess in tow. Somehow this wasn’t surprising, given the way Geralt’s life often went, but it did create a different dynamic.

Beyond that, though,  _ Geralt _ was different. Softer, somehow. Like he was actively trying to smooth away his hard edges, and his face often constricted with the pain of it.

Jaskier didn’t quite know what to do with it.

\--

Jaskier had broken a string on his lute. 

This wasn’t entirely unheard of. After all, with use, strings tended to break every so often. One spectacular time, Jaskier had stumbled while tuning his lute, and the string and snapped so suddenly that it whipped his face, splitting the skin of his cheek. The scar wasn’t _truly_ visible anymore, but Jaskier still noticed it, and more importantly, _Geralt_ still noticed it. Though the event happened years ago, it could still startle Geralt into the witcher’s version of giggles. At those times, Jaskier found himself both indignant over Geralt laughing at what had really been _Quite painful, honestly, Geralt_ , and warm over the fact that Geralt of Rivia was actually brought to laughter over a memory involving Jaskier.

A string broke again, and luckily this time it happened without maiming his face, though poor Ciri was nearly a casualty. This time, however, Jaskier was dismayed to find that he had no replacements. He hadn’t had enough coin to afford more strings the last time he stocked up on materials and he had only replaced them recently, so  _ surely _ they would last. They had, it just had been a very long time since the thought had crossed his mind.

Jaskier wasn’t pouting. Despite Ciri’s teasing, he was definitely not pouting, he was just a little… off, without the ability to play his lute. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, and they hadn’t planned on any stops in towns until they made it to Posada, where Geralt said Vesemir had sent him a note, which was still  _ days _ away. Jaskier was a grown man, he could handle a few days of disappointment until they made it to Posada.

His mood was definitely soured, though.

Without his lute to play, he  _ was _ quite a bit more observant. They should have turned right at that fork, but Geralt had led them to the left. Ciri hadn’t noticed, but of course she wouldn’t, she was still learning. Surely, though, Geralt knew that they had turned the wrong way.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked. Geralt grunted in return. “Shouldn’t we have gone the other way at that cross section? We’re moving  _ away _ from the river. You aren’t losing your sense of direction in your old age, are you? Oh, what a way to perish.”

Ciri giggled at Jaskier’s dramatics and Jaskier was sure Geralt had rolled his eyes. But even a minute later, he still hadn’t answered the question.

“Geralt?” Jaskier prodded.

“We have business in Lyria,” Geralt answered, finally. “We’ll stay the night there, then continue on to Posada as planned.”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t press further. Geralt was taciturn at best and frequently elusive, but if Geralt wanted to tell them what their business was, he likely would have already told them. They weren’t far from Lyria, at least, so soon Jaskier would know what, exactly, was so pressing to make Geralt of Rivia change their plans without so much as a warning. So Jaskier bit his tongue and they continued on silently.

Jaskier found himself without words when Geralt pointed him toward the very same shop Jaskier had replaced his strings at all those years ago. There wasn’t a hint of humor on Geralt’s face, though Jaskier did notice his eyes glide over Jaskier’s cheek.

\--

Finding themselves in Posada again was strange. It wasn’t the first time they had been back since their meeting, but every time held a strange edge. Posada felt both familiar, and like a brand new world to Jaskier every time, though the town itself rarely changed.

Vesemir’s note turned out to be inconsequential; it was merely a reply to Geralt’s announcement that Geralt would be bringing company with him to Kaer Morhen this winter. When Jaskier read it, he almost scoffed-- _ that _ was what they had rushed here for?--but one look at Geralt’s face silenced him. Geralt had been tense the past few days traveling, leading Jaskier to believe this message was more important. Life or death, even. Now, however, the lines on Geralt’s face had finally smoothed away, and his shoulders dipped. Geralt was  _ relieved _ . This wasn’t just an acknowledgement, this was  _ permission _ .

Jaskier supposed it made sense. If they didn’t have Kaer Morhen, then Geralt had nowhere safe to take Ciri. And if the fort was as secretive as Geralt had led Jaskier to believe, then Geralt must have been legitimately concerned that Vesemir would deny them. Then what would they do? Hole up in a court for the winter with Jaskier? That seemed recklessly dangerous, what with Ciri being a wanted young lady.

“Well!” Jaskier said, handing the letter back to Geralt. “Wonderful news! I, for one, think we should celebrate by sleeping in a bed, don’t you?” He turned to Ciri, who nodded vigorously, as if she had never heard a more devine suggestion in her life. “And as we are rather low on coin, it sounds as if it’s time for me to earn my keep!”

And with that, he stood up, lute in hand, to grace the fine people of this establishment with his craft.

The concert went well for a long while. Jaskier hadn’t been counting, exactly--it was hard to sing, play an instrument, keep eyes and charm on the room,  _ and _ do math in his head all at once--but it seemed as if there was enough coin in his hat to pay for not one, but  _ two _ rooms. Poor Ciri could finally have a moment to herself, rather than constantly having either Jaskier or Geralt as her babysitter.

Jaskier’s audience was a beautiful one. As the wine and ale flowed, they danced with his jigs, they sang along with some of his more  _ colorful _ tunes, and some of the women (and a couple men) grew a little teary eyed at his more maudlin ballads. They clearly had chosen a good tavern to set up in, because every so often patrons, heavy with drink from  _ other _ locations, made their way inside and joined in the festivities.

He was about to call it a night and take his coin to the inn-keeper, when he decided to end on his claim to fame. This wasn’t the first time he had played the song that night--in fact, it was the only one he  _ knew _ how many times he had played it, because all four times he had sent a wink to Geralt’s scowling face. 

This time, however, Geralt wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was talking to some man, and the way they were bowed low together convinced Jaskier that this must be about some monster. It was disappointing, but Jaskier brushed it off quickly. It was easy to, when he had caught Geralt staring at him all night, looking less surly and more… captivated. No, surely, captivated was the wrong word. Geralt had hardly expressed any interest in Jaskier’s music before, aside from correcting Jaskier’s creative licenses. But there was  _ something _ in his look that made Jaskier feel  _ seen _ . Every time, he had quickly broken the eye contact, but he was living off the high it gave him.

That particular line of thought had Jaskier neglecting his duties to the room. His playing didn’t falter--he could play this song in his sleep without a single mistake, thank you very much--but he had definitely lost the crowd for a moment. When he came back with a cheeky grin and a wink at one of the women, he was too late to attend to the fist that hit him a moment later.

To say he was caught off guard would be putting it lightly. He stumbled, his cheek blooming in heat and pain, and nearly dropped his lute. Luckily, he caught the beautiful thing with a jarring  _ twang _ of the strings, and for a moment there was complete silence before it felt like  _ everyone _ started yelling.

“Shut the fuck up, witcher whore!” was the only piece Jaskier picked up as he attempted to catch up with his shocked, sluggish brain, before he was assaulted again; this time the fist went for his gut.

Jaskier was quicker this time in disengaging--the punch turned into more of a light tap as Jaskier nimbly stepped away from the angry drunkard. His moves were as slurred as his words, but still he pursued Jaskier with intent to hit him again. Jaskier wasn’t much of a fighter, especially not when he had nowhere safe to put his beloved instrument, but he was quick and lithe, especially when confronted with a man who had likely had drunk Jaskier’s bodyweight in ale. He only had to evade him long enough for the man to get tired or for someone else to step in and escort the brute out, and Jaskier had faced  _ far _ more frightening foes than this.

Unfortunately, his space was extremely limited, what with the patrons scurrying around like  _ they _ had been victims of the onslaught and their deserted furniture clogging up Jaskier’s path. So when the drunkard was yanked away from a very near second assault on Jaskier’s face, Jaskier’s breath came out in a cheered rush. It wasn’t surprising to see the witcher as his savior, and it was  _ extremely _ satisfying to see the brute tossed out on his arse outside the door.

What  _ was _ surprising, was Geralt immediately returning to Jaskier once the man was taken care of. His hands on Jaskier’s face had Jaskier gasping, and Geralt hesitated, moving fingertips away from the bruise. But it hadn’t been  _ pain _ that caused Jaskier to gasp, rather it was the soft, gentle way Geralt was touching him.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked, turning Jaskier’s face with a soft press of fingers on his jaw.

“I’m just fine,” Jaskier breathed, and he wanted to ask Geralt what he was doing, but he didn’t want to break the moment. Geralt’s fingers ghosted over Jaskier’s cheekbone, and Jaskier was  _ sure _ he would have a bruise there tomorrow, but all he could feel now was the white-hot heat Geralt’s fingers were leaving behind.

They were there for hours, Jaskier was sure, as he catalogued the way Geralt’s eyebrows knit together in concern for  _ him _ , but when the spell finally broke and they returned to the world, not even a minute had gone by.

Their rooms were lovely, and Ciri’s had been on the house, as an apology for the brawl.

\--

Jaskier’s favorite thing to do, now that the three of them were together, was to watch Geralt teach Ciri.

There was a new lesson every night they camped. Whenever they stayed in inns, Ciri received a helpful reprieve of privacy, after that first night when she was in a  _ much _ better mood the entire next  _ week _ after having some time to herself. Turned out thirteen year old girls needed some alone time. Who knew? But when they made camp for the night, Geralt took the opportunity to give her at least one new skill.

Sometimes it’s survival related: which berries are safe to eat, how to pick the best firewood, how to set a trap for rabbits. Sometimes they sparred, and though Ciri never won, Jaskier could see her getting closer, the way her arms and legs were thickening with muscle, and how her hold on her wooden sword became surer every time. Tonight, the subject was apothecary related. Geralt spent the past half hour pointing out the plants around their campsite and the medicinal benefits of each one, both for humans and witchers.

Teaching seemed to come naturally for Geralt.. It was the most patient Jaskier had ever seen him, and usually Ciri listened with rapt attention. Every so often, she would interrupt to ask questions, and Geralt would stop, listen to her, and answer the question without any trace of annoyance. He always answered carefully and thoroughly, making sure she understood before he continued on with whatever he was saying.

Jaskier found himself playing and composing quietly, just so he could hear the two of them as they worked. It was the most peaceful Jaskier had ever felt. He was so peaceful, he almost didn’t notice the cold settling in around him, despite the fire. He didn’t notice he was shivering until Geralt abruptly stood up, peeled off his cloak, and draped it around Jaskier’s shoulders without so much as a word, before going back to Cirilla.

It happened so quickly, Jaskier didn’t have time to protest, only react. Even _ that _ he found difficult. He froze, glancing after Geralt, who just continued on his lesson as if nothing had happened. Jaskier waited a moment, trying to figure out if this was real, before he tugged the cloak closer with a small, private smile.

There was something particularly comforting about being surrounded by Geralt’s scent.

\--

Sex hadn’t changed much. Over the years, being intimate with Geralt had been so varied based on the circumstances that there wasn’t really much of a “normal” to speak of. The main difference now that Ciri was here was that it was rare for Geralt to touch Jaskier under the stars. The only time they found release with each other was when they stayed at an inn, which only happened every now and then, since they were trying to make their coin stretch farther while Geralt was taking less contracts.

The way Geralt held him afterward, however, that was new. It wasn’t that Geralt had been cold or distant after they had lain together, he had accepted any tenderness Jaskier had initiated. Now, though, Geralt seemed to seek it out.

Once, Jaskier had gotten up immediately after they were finished to grab a cloth to clean them up, and Geralt’s eyes had seemed… wounded, almost. Geralt was completely rigid against Jaskier’s body as he pressed against Geralt’s side, and only relaxed when Jaskier pressed soft kisses along Geralt’s shoulder. After that, Jaskier made a point to prepare a cloth and some water  _ before _ they engaged physically, so he never had to leave the bed. It was a little uncomfortable, wiping them down with water that was now cold--especially after sessions that lasted hours--but it was worth it for the way Geralt stayed pliant and open against him.

Tonight, Geralt had been particularly thorough. He had teased Jaskier for  _ hours _ , drawing sounds from his lips that Jaskier didn’t even know he could make. Jaskier wasn’t as young as he had been when they started this, but Geralt had been singular in bringing Jaskier just to the brink of his breaking point. Now that they were finished, Jaskier was too worn out even to clean the spend from his chest. His arms and legs were boneless, and all he could do was catch his breath.

Geralt looked downright smug as he took over the task, though cleaning Jaskier’s body seemed to come second to mapping the planes of Jaskier’s skin with his mouth.

“I hope you’re not trying to start something again,” Jaskier mumbled fondly. “I have nothing left to give. You’ve finished me. I fear you and Ciri shall have to leave me behind.”

If the sharp burst of air from Geralt’s nose was anything to go by, he at least found this amusing, but he didn’t stop. His lips trailed their way along Jaskier’s body, pressing soft, intent-less kisses, mostly on marks Geralt had left behind, but on bare expanses of skin as well. Jaskier sighed into the action, feeling almost close to tears, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing if Geralt looked up only to see Jaskier  _ crying _ ? But he couldn’t help it. It was moments like these when Jaskier wanted so, so badly to tell Geralt he loved him, but knew he couldn’t.

But then Geralt was face to face with Jaskier again, pulling Jaskier close, allowing Jaskier to press his face into Geralt’s neck, and running his fingers up and down Jaskier’s bare back, and Geralt  _ had _ to know. He had to know how affection bloomed in Jaskier’s chest, how every kiss he pressed to Geralt’s skin was a declaration of love.

_ I love you. I have always loved you. I always will love you, _ he kissed.

\--

This wasn’t the first time Geralt had gotten hurt.

But Geralt was gasping for breath and Ciri’s eyes were wide as saucers with her barely concealed fear and Jaskier knew things were going south  _ quickly _ .

The one respite was that  _ both _ the drowners and the kikimore were dead. What wasn’t good was that Geralt hadn’t been expecting the kikimore, and witcher healing be damned, Geralt was  _ hurt _ from the strike it landed on him before Geralt could kill it. Geralt had barely been able to pull his sword from the beast before he passed out into the swamp, and thank god Jaskier and Ciri had been there to pull him out of the water, or he would have drowned.

Now, though, he was going to die simply because Jaskier couldn’t find the right freaking  _ potion _ .

Geralt was going to be annoyed when he came to and his bag was disorganized, but Jaskier could deal with that later, because right now he just needed to find that blasted vial of swallow. And then Geralt was going to get an earful about needing to pack the important potions closer to the top or, and here was a novel idea,  _ in their own compartment _ .

It was after he pulled out probably the third vial of fucking  _ bindweed _ that Jaskier finally, finally found what he was looking for, and he tipped its contents into Geralt’s mouth without even making a triumphant noise-- _ that _ was how scared he was. Already, color was coming back to Geralt’s face and Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief before he could finally tend to the gaping wound in Geralt’s chest.

“He’ll be okay,” he had the presence of mind to say to Ciri, who immediately sat back and let out the breath she had been holding.

He and Ciri struggled to pull the dead-weight of the witcher, water-logged armor and all, to a nearby clearing, and Ciri set to work building a fire (thank you, Geralt, for making her so self-sufficient) while Jaskier tended to Geralt’s wounds. Taking off his armor and shirt wasn’t easy, but he managed it well enough. If Geralt complained of a headache when he woke up, Jaskier would insist that was due to the battle, rather than when Jaskier dropped his head on a log. He stitched up the gaping wound from where the kikimore had pierced him, and despite how badly his hands were shaking, he had to admit that his stitches looked  _ fine _ . Not expert, by any means, and not even the best he had ever done, but Jaskier was at least convinced that they would do their job.

He was washing the blood off Geralt’s chest when Geralt came to, though Jaskier didn’t notice until the witcher’s hands wrapped around Jaskier’s. He looked up and let out a relieved, just shy of manic, laugh to see Geralt’s amber eyes looking up at him.

“Jaskier-” Geralt started, only to be interrupted by Jaskier.

“We are going to have  _ words _ , Geralt of Rivia, about where you keep your fucking potions. I could have lost you just because it took me so fucking long to find the right one. You may have superhuman healing abilities, but you’re not  _ impervious _ and you can’t just walk away from a kikimore trying to rip your heart out, you great, big-”

This time Jaskier was cut off by Geralt pulling him down into a soft kiss. It was effective, Jaskier had to admit. As soon as Geralt’s lips were against his, Jaskier stopped his tirade and just  _ melted _ . Well, melted as much as he could without putting any weight on Geralt, who was still very much not healed. It didn’t last for long--they both found themselves short of breath quicker than usual, probably due to the physical exertion and Geralt’s injuries. But instead of pulling away, Jaskier rested his forehead against Geralt’s.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Jaskier whispered.

He took a moment to breathe before pulling away and getting back to work on cleaning Geralt up. Ciri rejoined them and dutifully asked questions about the kikimore, and Jaskier smiled as he worked. It was kind of her to let Geralt go back to a teaching mode, lest he be uncomfortable with Jaskier’s fussing.

It took hours for Jaskier to realize that was their first kiss outside of sex.

\--

Jaskier was not sick. He couldn’t be. Jaskier didn’t  _ get _ sick.

This was a stance he clung to the entire walk that day. Even though he was definitely slower than usual--Geralt often had to slow Roach so Jaskier could catch up--and Ciri looked at him pityingly every time he let out a nasty cough--but that was just the dirt from the road irritating his lungs. Every time he insisted that he wasn’t sick, that it was just allergies, or he didn’t sleep well the night before, Geralt rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. 

By the end of the day, though, it was getting harder and harder to cling to this assertion. When they made camp, Jaskier dropped heavily to the ground, unable to even fathom helping with camp, but Ciri and Geralt had it under control anyway. His body ached all over. He felt like he would never be warm again, shaking as he sweat with such intensity he was sure he had sat right inside the fire.

“Come on,” Geralt finally urged him, helping Jaskier up--despite Jaskier’s protests that,  _ Really, Geralt, I’m fine right here _ \--and into the river.

The water felt like ice, and his entire body tensed as he wrapped his arms around himself to try to stave off some of the chill. Geralt was not far behind; he’d had to help Jaskier out of his clothes, and didn’t even laugh at a  _ single one _ of Jaskier’s very witty sexual jokes. Once he was naked, too, he joined Jaskier in the river, and hardly even reacted to how cold the water was, the mutant. But Jaskier had to admit, the way Geralt washed him felt  _ divine _ . It was completely unnecessary, as Jaskier reiterated to him every chance he got, but every time Geralt just hummed or shushed him, then went back to washing Jaskier’s hair. Eventually, Jaskier gave into it. He leaned into Geralt’s body and allowed himself to be taken care of; he even managed to doze a little against Geralt’s chest. 

Leaving the water wasn’t very nice, but the way Geralt led him with a hand on the small of his back was.

The potion, solution, stew, whatever it was, that Ciri made didn’t taste nice, but the way Geralt smiled at her and told her “You made it perfectly,” made Jaskier feel the warmest he had all day.

Soon, his body felt so heavy and his mind felt so cloudy that all he could do was lean into Geralt’s side. The witcher held him like it was the most natural thing in the world, like they had always done this, and carried on testing Ciri on the uses of various herbs and roots. Jaskier barely noticed drifting off.

When he woke--hours later, judging by how the fire had died down--he was on a bedroll, tucked tightly against Geralt’s body. Jaskier lifted his arm and draped it around Geralt’s middle, managing to press a kiss against Geralt’s temple before the clutches of sleep took him again.

\--

Geralt was  _ drunk _ and Jaskier was  _ delighted _ .

It didn’t happen often. Geralt didn’t drink to excess unless he felt safe enough to do so, which was rare, especially since gaining Cirilla. But something about this town had, apparently, made him feel secure enough to let loose, because when Jaskier had come back from his performance, Geralt’s eyes were unfocused and he had a lazy smile on his face.

“Ciri, I thought I left you in charge,” Jaskier teased.

“And I did exactly what you taught me to do--arrange the situation to my advantage,” Ciri smirked back, and, ah, she did look a little hazy eyed as well. Sneaking drinks was much easier when Geralt was also drinking, Jaskier assumed.

He had to admit, though, he was very proud of her mischief. But now he had a very, very inebriated witcher on his hands.

“Well, I think the party is officially over. Let’s go upstairs,” he said, standing up.

Geralt’s gaze was lazy and fond, and it never left Jaskier. Although he also did not seem to be  _ listening _ to Jaskier, because it took  _ several _ tugs to get the witcher to stand up. Jaskier was relieved that Cirilla at least seemed to be more sober than his White Wolf, but that still meant that her steps were meandering as she, more or less, led the way upstairs.

“I don’t have to bar your door, do I?” Jaskier asked, turning a stern gaze on Cirilla, though he was pretty sure the impact of it wavered some due to the way Geralt was leaning on him and petting Jaskier’s cheek.

“The innkeeper stopped serving me about an hour ago  _ anyway _ ,” Ciri huffed. “And everyone fun already left. I’ll stay in, I promise.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at her a moment longer, as Ciri made a cross over her heart, then grinned toothily and slipped into her own room. Jaskier sighed fondly, before opening  _ their _ door, which really would have been easier  _ without _ Geralt nipping at his neck and earlobe the entire time.

“Geralt, honestly. You do make this  _ difficult _ ,” Jaskier whined, but he finally opened the door and all-but dragged the witcher through the threshold.

He barely got the door closed before Geralt was pressing him back into it. Jaskier huffed a laugh as he curled his fingers into Geralt’s gorgeous white locks, keeping Geralt’s head exactly where it was: sucking and nipping a mark into Jaskier’s neck.

“Not a very subtle location, darling,” Jaskier mumbled.

“Good,” Geralt answered. His leg shifted and his thigh pressed against Jaskier’s hardening length so deliciously, eliciting a gasp from Jaskier’s lips. “Then they’ll know you’re mine.”

A flush crept across Jaskier’s face. “Yours, hm?” Geralt hummed his affirmative. “It’s a pity you heal so fast. I can’t leave anything on you.”

“They know,” Geralt answered, pulling back to admire his handiwork. The grin he gave was downright wolfish, just moments before he leaned back into Jaskier’s space to kiss him so hard that Jaskier was sure his lips would be kiss-bruised tomorrow, too. He couldn’t find any will to complain. Especially not when, minutes later, Geralt continued, “Don’t need marks for everyone to know I’m yours.”

\--

They were getting closer to Kaer Morhen.

Although Jaskier knew that was always the destination, and that Ciri and Geralt had to get there soon, he still wanted, more than anything, to stall them. Soon they would have to part, and Jaskier would have to find some way to grow used to sleeping alone again. He didn’t even know if he’d see Geralt again in the spring, like usual. Maybe he and Ciri would stay in Kaer Morhen for protection. The idea of a season without Geralt was enough to inspire Jaskier into a mournful ballad. The threat of longer had him feeling too empty to even pick up his lute.

He didn’t want to ask, but he had to. And it was easier at night, when it was harder to see Geralt’s face. Wrapped up as they were, he knew Geralt could still see his, so Jaskier only spoke once his nose was buried in Geralt’s neck. It was going to be hard enough to harden his body language--Jaskier didn’t think he’d be able to keep his face neutral.

“We’re very far north,” Jaskier began.

Geralt hummed. His fingers played with Jaskier’s hair at the nape of his neck, and it would have been so easy to just pause there, end the conversation, and let Geralt be tender with him. Only for Jaskier to continue to feel on edge as they got closer and closer to Kaer Morhen.

“We’ll be at Kaer Morhen soon.” 

Geralt only hummed his agreement again. Was he really going to make Jaskier ask? Jaskier waited a moment, but Geralt did not continue. Apparently he was. 

“Do I have another week? A few days?”

Geralt’s hand stilled. “Jaskier?” he asked, and he sounded so confused.

“Until we part?” Jaskier just barely whispered it. He didn’t want to will this into reality, but he had to  _ know _ . He had to know how long he had left with Geralt and Ciri, until he had to make his own way.

Geralt was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, he sounded pained. “You’re not coming to Kaer Morhen?”

A wave of ice rolled over Jaskier. He pulled back, suddenly very, very frustrated that he had waited until nightfall to have this discussion. He couldn’t see Geralt’s face, only his eyes that just barely shone through the darkness. Well, if he couldn’t see Geralt’s face anyway, then he might as well have the reaction his nerves felt like they needed. Jaskier sat up, looking incredulously at Geralt as he tried to puzzle this out.

“I didn’t--you never--” Jaskier sputtered, turning around to face Geralt. So much for schooling his expression. Jaskier was  _ bewildered _ . He tried a few more times to speak, his mouth opening and closing over and over until Jaskier was sure he looked quite like a fish. When he finally found his voice, he sounded quite hysterical to his own ears. “I thought it was only you and Ciri going!”

Geralt slowly sat up, too. His hand was hesitant as he reached for Jaskier, but even with the hesitancy, Jaskier startled some when Geralt touched his hip. Geralt continued on anyway, tugging Jaskier closer.

“I thought you were coming, too,” he said, and his voice sounded as hesitant as his hand had been.

Jaskier stared at this man, this bewildering, reticent man before him, his mouth agape. “Geralt, you didn’t-” he started, then paused. Gods, his voice sounded wrecked. Jaskier knew he wanted to go, but he didn’t know just  _ how much _ he wanted it until now. He tried again. “You didn’t ask me to. I-I thought. I thought I couldn’t.”

Geralt hummed, but instead of answering, he laid back down. After a moment, he hauled Jaskier down with him, pulling their hips flush and smoothing away Jaskier’s surprised squack with his lips. Jaskier melted into the kiss--he hadn’t found some way to mess this up. Though he still didn’t know where this left them.

“Geralt,” Jaskier insisted, finally pushing Geralt away with a hand on his chest.

Geralt hummed, tried to kiss him again, then let out a soft, breathy laugh when Jaskier’s hand stayed firm.

“Jaskier, come to Kaer Morhen with me,” he whispered, and a shiver went through Jaskier’s body. He was pretty sure nothing Geralt had ever said to him sounded quite as seductive as that, and he wasn’t even trying to seduce Jaskier now. “I want you there.”

Jaskier grinned, and leaned in for a kiss, but Geralt pulled back. Jaskier raised an eyebrow, confused, until Geralt nudged his hip against Jaskiers.

“Oh, you great, big-- _ yes _ , darling. Of course. Of course I’ll come to Kaer Morhen.”

This time, when he surged forward to kiss Geralt, Geralt didn’t pull away. In fact, he wrapped his arms around Jaskier and tugged him on top of his body. Jaskier’s legs bracketed Geralt’s hips and his arms haloed his head as they kissed. He didn’t need to breathe anymore; Geralt had more than filled him.

“Can you  _ please _ go to sleep?” Ciri asked after a while, and Jaskier had to laugh at how  _ annoyed _ she sounded. “ _ Gross _ .”

\--

Jaskier was being good. Honestly, he was. If being good meant sulking in the corner of a tavern while Geralt and Yennefer discussed “very important matters” at the other end of it, then he was being a  _ saint _ .

Geralt had only told them this morning that they needed to stop in Gelibol. Jaskier was excited; he was ready to have an actual bed to sleep rather than the cold, hard ground. Not to mention, Ciri was just as ready as Geralt and Jaskier were to get some time  _ away _ . What Geralt had failed to mention was the fact that  _ Yennefer _ was the reason they were in Gelibol,  _ not _ because he was so overcome with lust for Jaskier that he just  _ had _ to fuck and be fucked by him until they were both sated enough to finish the hard journey to Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier had stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the sorceress; Cirilla only just barely managed to stop in time to avoid a collision. Then he turned on his heel, leveling Geralt with a glare that Geralt, the absolute demon, shrugged off.

“She has information on Nilfgaard, Jaskier,” he said, stepping ahead of Ciri and leading Jaskier into the tavern with a hand on the small of his back. He brought Jaskier to a table and all but pushed him into the chair. Jaskier glared up at him, but allowed the manhandling. Damn him. “The more we know the better.”

“Can I talk to her, too?” Ciri asked, though Jaskier saw the hurt flash across her face for the briefest of moments.

Geralt must have seen it, too, because he shook his head. “Not yet. Watch Jaskier. Don’t let him do anything stupid,” he said, then paused a moment. “Or drink himself to death.”

Jaskier scowled at Geralt as he turned to the sorceress, and just barely managed to resist the temptation to mock him. He did, however, immediately order  _ copious _ amounts of ale from the barkeep.

“You don’t like her very much, do you?” Ciri said, sitting down next to Jaskier so that she, too, could watch the conversation.

“Now, what gave you that idea?” Jaskier asked, before downing half his ale in one go, and immediately motioning for another.

The conversation between Geralt and Yennefer went on long enough that by the time Geralt returned to the table, Jaskier was well and truly  _ drunk _ . And moody. But he had been moody before Geralt had left, so that wasn’t much of a change.

Geralt’s steps were wary as he approached the table. “I thought I asked you not to let him drink himself to death,” he said, looking reproachfully at Ciri.

“He’s still alive,” Ciri answered with a shrug. “And, really, what did you expect me to do when he’s like this? Scream at him?”

Jaskier snorted, but Geralt only pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yennefer wants to talk to you. I already bought our rooms. I’m going to take him upstairs.”

Geralt reached for Jaskier, but Jaskier threw up his hands. “I can walk myself,  _ thank you _ ,” he said, though he grimaced a little at how his words slurred together. Okay, maybe drinking as much as he had in such a short period of time wasn’t the best idea. But Jaskier was emboldened with righteous fury. And maybe a little jealous. And hurt. Mostly the emboldened with righteous fury part, though.

He slammed his hands on the table, loud enough that a few nearby heads turned, and pushed his chair out. Jaskier took a deep breath and stood up, swaying enough that Geralt took a step forward, but Jaskier waved him off. He wasn’t about to be carried out of here in front of Yennefer of Vengerberg. Even if, really, he probably needed it.

Jaskier managed to make it to the stairwell without  _ too _ many issues, aside from nearly knocking over a stool as he rounded the corner of the bar. Yennefer hadn’t even said anything, except for whatever she had scoffed into her drink as he passed, but Jaskier hadn’t heard it and was too afraid if he wheeled to face her that he would eat the floor. He wanted to maintain  _ some _ shred of dignity, thank you.

These stairs, however, were not happening. Jaskier stared at them hopelessly for a moment, then stepped up the first one, only to immediately stumble back down. His hands clenched into fists as he tried again, and this time he got four steps up, before he swayed dangerously back and had to be caught by Geralt.

“Gedd _ off _ ,” Jaskier grumbled, pushing half-heartedly at Geralt. 

He pressed his hand against the wall and tried again. This time he got only one step and was attempting a second when Geralt sighed behind him and swept him up into a bridal-style hold.

“I can  _ do it _ ,” Jaskier insisted, feeling hot shame wash over him.

“Maybe by next week, but we don’t have that kind of time,” Geralt replied, and Jaskier sighed and allowed it--not that he really had much of a choice. The only thing fighting against Geralt would do now is land him very painfully on the floor, and Jaskier had zero intention of causing that kind of drama.

So Geralt carried him to their room, through the doorway, and dropped him unceremoniously on the bed. Jaskier groused to himself and rolled over onto his side, curling his body up on what could generously be called a mattress as he heard Geralt undress.

“S’where are  _ you _ sleeping?” Jaskier asked. God, he sounded miserable. This wasn’t a good look, and he knew it, but he was far past being able to help it now. “Didn’t Yennefer get a room?”

“Stop it, Jaskier,” Geralt sighed.

Jaskier did stop. He didn’t say a word or move as Geralt’s boots landed heavily on the floor. The mattress dipped a bit as Geralt sat on the other side, and Jaskier could just barely feel the heat from Geralt’s body.

“What’d’you learn?” Jaskier asked.

“Nilfgaard is much farther south. They took a big hit a few months ago. They’re rebuilding and seem to have no idea where Ciri is. Yen thinks they’ll start looking again soon, but we have time until then. She didn’t have more information on Ciri’s powers, but she’s going to look into it, see if anyone can help her. She had some suggestions on how to help her harness it, though.”

Jaskier harrumphed. He was, somehow, more bitter at the fact that talking to Yennefer was  _ useful _ . Of course it would be, though. The sorceress was brilliant. And had far more ability to do information digging than anyone in their party could. Honestly, Jaskier was surprised Geralt didn’t meet up with her sooner, and yet--

“Why didn’t you  _ tell me _ ?” He sounded petulant. He knew he did. He couldn’t help it.

“Is that what this is about?” Geralt sighed again. “I had a feeling you’d react poorly. Clearly I was wrong.”

Jaskier finally turned just enough to scowl at Geralt, then rolled back over. He grunted a reply back.

“Damn it, Jaskier. What’s the matter with you?” Geralt snarled, finally standing up.

Ah, there they were. It hurt, but a masochistic part of him wanted this. It was easier if Geralt at least had a reason to yell at him. Then Jaskier could control this.

“Nothing, Geralt,” he mumbled.

Geralt rounded the bed, kneeling to look at Jaskier’s face. Jaskier reared back and rolled away onto his stomach so he could turn his face to the other side, ignoring Geralt’s frustrated huff.

“You don’t wear jealousy well, Jaskier.”

Jaskier pushed himself up on his hands, turning his glare back on Geralt. “I’m not  _ jealous _ , Geralt,” he exploded. He was, but that wasn’t what this was about. Jaskier would always be jealous of Yennefer, for having a piece of Geralt that Jaskier couldn’t have, for being the one Geralt chose over him, but that wasn’t what  _ this _ was. “You didn’t  _ talk to me _ . You didn’t  _ tell me _ the real reason why we were here. Instead you hid it from me and-and-and-”

He didn’t know what else he wanted to say. He didn’t know what the  _ and _ was. He pushed himself up fully, sitting on his calves, and pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes. 

“Is this it? Where you... Take back my invitation? She can offer more for Ciri, so now it’s time to yell at me and push me away? Because I’m  _ jealous _ ?”

“ _ You _ pushed  _ me _ away tonight.”

“Oh, so for once it’s me! Great! I’ll go tell  _ Yen _ that this time it was  _ me _ that drove you to her, at least this time I will have had warning before you go off--”

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” Geralt cut him off, and something about his tone made Jaskier quiet. Geralt scrubbed a hand over his stubble, and the room was suddenly so quiet that the sound was  _ loud _ . “You’re drunk. And you’re spiralling. And you need to stop. You’re being an  _ asshole _ , and still, I’m here. Not with Yennefer. With  _ you _ . So will you shut up and stop this?”

Geralt had barely finished speaking before Jaskier was launching himself into Geralt’s arms. Bless witcher reflexes, honestly, because anyone else would have dropped Jaskier. Jaskier hugged Geralt tightly, pressing his face into Geralt’s shoulder. Half of him believed that if he didn’t throw his entire strength into it, then Geralt would still extract himself from Jaskier and leave the room. No matter how much a self-hating part of him had wanted that before, he  _ desperately _ didn’t want that now.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re acting like this, then?” Geralt asked minutes later, climbing onto the bed when Jaskier showed no sign of letting go.

“I’m  _ sorry _ ,” Jaskier almost sobbed into Geralt’s shirt. Another reason why it was good Geralt was a witcher, with strengthened witcher hearing. Jaskier was barely understandable. Even if he had extracted himself from Geralt’s shoulder, he was weepy from the drink. “Last time-last time you went to her over me every time. And you sent me away. And you didn’t  _ tell me _ she would be here. And I didn’t want you to go. But. But if you did, I wanted it to be  _ my  _ fault.”

Geralt sighed, his grip tightening on Jaskier’s back as he slowly rocked them back and forth, like Jaskier really was a child. He felt like it, now, just barely holding back tears from his tantrum. He wished he had stopped two tankards ago, so he could have had this conversation like an adult. There was little he could do about it now, though.

“I’m not going anywhere, you drunk fool,” Geralt said. “I should have told you. And you should have talked to me. What, you get a little insecure, and all of your bardic talents for  _ endless _ speech fly out the window?”

He was teasing him, and Jaskier huffed out a relieved laugh. He hadn’t ruined things, no matter how much he had tried to. 

They stayed there for a long time, just holding each other as Jaskier calmed down. His face remained flush the whole time, though at this point, Jaskier wasn’t sure if that was from the drink or from the shame of his actions. The door to the room beside them opened and closed, and the footsteps must have been familiar, because he felt Geralt relax just slightly against him.

It was a slow process, but eventually they ended up laying in the bed, Jaskier’s body draped over Geralt’s, his arms looped under Geralt’s shoulders and Geralt’s arms drawing idly on Jaskier’s back. Jaskier was slowly drifting off to sleep when he finally spoke again.

“Why don’t  _ I _ have a nickname?” Jaskier mumbled, but the words held no bite.

Geralt gave him a breathy laugh. “Jaskier is a nickname.”

“That doesn’t count, darling, you know it doesn’t.”

Geralt hummed, but if he replied, Jaskier didn’t hear him, because he was already asleep.

\--

After Jaskier had ruined their stay in a town, it took a  _ lot _ of needling to convince Geralt to make another stop before their ascent to Kaer Morhen.

“Please, Geralt? It will be so nice and cozy in a bed. And you’ll be able to have a  _ bath.  _ In something other than a frigid river. I could wash your hair.”

Geralt hummed. “We could have had a bath in Gelibol.”

Jaskier sighed. “I apologized a hundred times, Geralt. When will you stop punishing me for what I did?”

Geralt smirked, leaning in close to Jaskier’s ear to whisper, “It’s too bad. I had planned to have you on your hands and knees. I would have used my mouth to open you up until you begged me to fuck you. We had a whole night without contracts. Just you, and me, and complete privacy.”

Jaskier shuddered, then glowered at Geralt. “You punish me, Geralt.”

“Maybe in Yspaden,” Geralt answered, shrugging as he pulled away. “If you’re good.”

Jaskier recognized the offering for what it was--a chance for Jaskier to truly make up for his behavior in Gelibol. Though Geralt had insisted he wasn’t mad, Jaskier knew his witcher was as disappointed as Jaskier was that Jaskier had squandered a perfectly good night in an inn. And for all Geralt grumbled, he knew as well as Ciri and Jaskier did that they would need a final night in comfort before they stumbled their way in the frigid cold to Kaer Morhen. Yspaden was their last stop before facing the other witchers, assuming they also returned. 

The relief was evident on Ciri’s face, too. Surely she had dealt with quite enough of Geralt and Jaskier’s bickering after leaving Gelibol. Having such a disappointing, largely unresolved night had set both men on edge, and as such  _ most _ things set them off into petty squabbles these days. Really, it was for the good of all of them that they stop in Yspaden for a night.

When they entered the town, it was like a spell had been cast over all three of them. Everyone’s shoulders relaxed and they found themselves drawn to an inn as if it was calling to them. They didn’t have  _ much _ coin left, but there was enough for two rooms for two nights--the unspoken agreement being that they’d spend the following day replenishing their purse--and hot meals all around. They ate their food in silence, just barely managing to nod at each other before they retired to their rooms for the night.

The bath was still hot and steamy when Geralt and Jaskier entered the room, and Jaskier took Geralt’s belongings from his hands, urgently casting his eyes toward the tub before Jaskier set about staging the room exactly as Geralt always did. Swords close and easily accessible, but everything more or less hidden away.

By the time Jaskier turned back, Geralt had shed himself of his clothes and had climbed into the bath, and Jaskier lept to join him. Geralt’s clothes had been discarded in a  _ somewhat _ organized fashion--they were at least all in one pile--but Jaskier’s garments trailed their way to the bath.

Geralt breathed out a laugh as Jaskier slid into the tub, straddling Geralt’s thighs.

“Who invited you?” he asked, his eyes lighting up with mirth.

“You did. It was written across your face,” Jaskier answered. 

He began washing Geralt, but in a lazy, slow way. Really, his attention was more on feeling Geralt’s body than strictly getting him  _ clean _ , but judging by the way Geralt sighed and leaned into Jaskier’s hands, he didn’t seem to mind. Jaskier had only just barely started to move on to actual  _ soap _ when Geralt’s hands started to roam.

“I’m meant to be washing you, Geralt,” Jaskier admonished as Geralt’s fingers trailed intently up Jaskier’s thighs. He gasped as, in response, Geralt pressed his thumbs into Jaskier’s inner thighs, dragging them  _ deliciously _ toward Jaskier’s groin, only to pull away at the last second.

“So wash me,” Geralt answered, his grin so big his sharp canines showed.

It was difficult to wash Geralt when he was so insistent on being a menace but, somehow, Jaskier prevailed with as little stuttering as he could. It became more difficult, though, as Geralt’s insistent hands looped around Jaskier’s body, rubbing determined circles into the swell of Jaskier’s ass until he finally moved close enough to spread him open. 

Jaskier groaned, his hands stilling over Geralt’s chest as he doused Geralt’s flesh with water, trying to dispel the soap. Geralt’s eyebrow raised, and Jaskier had to resist  _ hard _ not to kiss that smug look off his face.

“Problem?” Geralt asked, just as a finger began rubbing light circles over Jaskier’s hole.

Jaskier moaned, but shook his head. “N-no, no problem here,” he answered, though his lips remained parted and his breath grew more ragged. He was determined to finish his task, however, no matter how much Geralt wanted to tease him. And if he spilled a little too much water over Geralt’s face as he attempted to wet the witcher’s hair, well, that was only an occupational hazard.

“Dick,” Geralt growled, though the sound held considerably less bite as Jaskier heard a bottle of oil open behind him. 

Jaskier’s thighs tensed in anticipation as he massaged Geralt’s scalp. Geralt’s first finger was insistent upon him, pressing inside with very little resistance, as Jaskier threaded his fingers through Geralt’s hair, spreading the lather. As Geralt continued to fuck Jaskier slowly, thoroughly, every drag of his finger against him pressing deeper, Jaskier leaned forward, until he was supporting himself by his forearms pressed against Geralt’s shoulders. Still he washed Geralt’s hair, being perhaps a bit more exhaustive to the task than strictly necessary, but if it bothered Geralt, he did not speak it, only added more fingers, opening Jaskier up more for him.

Jaskier’s breath was coming out in noisy little puffs, just barely more substantial than whimpers, and he pressed his open mouth against Geralt’s shoulder.

“I thought you were washing my hair?” the smug bastard chided, and Jaskier could  _ hear _ his smile.

Jaskier’s hands went back to work, now he carded his fingers through Geralt’s hair in the water. “I’m trying. You need to-- _ ah _ \--t-tilt your head back.”

Geralt obeyed him, and Jaskier set to work. He whined as Geralt removed his fingers from inside him, but then Geralt was pressing him forward with firm hands behind his thighs, and the way their hard cocks slid together briefly had Jaskier’s head falling forward, a moan wracking through his body. His job was forgotten, momentarily, as Geralt’s cock pressed against his entrance, and Jaskier pressed into it before the hand Geralt had kept on his thigh pressed him back up.

“You have a task, lark,” Geralt said, and Jaskier’s answering whine was breathy and weak.

Geralt didn’t move until Jaskier lifted his hands and returned to washing the soap out of Geralt’s hair. Even then, the pace he set was torturously slow, almost as if he wanted Jaskier to feel every inch, filling him up. And, Gods, wasn’t  _ that _ a thought that had his breaths punching out of him.

By the time Jaskier was fully seated on Geralt’s cock, Geralt’s hair was clean. Still, he carded his fingers through Geralt’s hair, but now it was appreciative, loving, rather than filled with purpose. He pressed his mouth into Geralt’s shoulder, babbling at him, talking too fast for either one of them to  _ really _ understand it, but likely some recognition would make its way through his hazy brain hours later.

When Geralt finally started to move, to fuck up into Jaskier, Jaskier was already overwhelmed in the best of ways. He lifted his head to speak into Geralt’s ear, though most of what came out of his mouth was “Geralt” and “please” and “more” and “ _ yes _ ” rather than actual coherent sentences. If Geralt minded, he didn’t say anything, only let his breath warm Jaskier’s shoulder as he sunk his teeth just over the bone.

His climax came to him slowly, and then all at once. Jaskier jumped straight from digging his nails into Geralt’s chest to desperately grabbing at Geralt’s hair just to have something to hold onto. Jaskier lifted his hips and pressed down in tandem with Geralt’s thrusts, taking him deeper each time, until Geralt was fucking  _ hard _ against that spot inside Jaskier every time. He went from breathy whimpers and soft begging to loud, passionate moans, begging Geralt, though what he was begging for, neither one of them  _ truly _ knew.

Geralt’s fingers dug into the back of Jaskier’s thigh, helping Jaskier keep the pace, and his free hand tugged on Jaskier’s cock, pulling him once, twice, three times, until Jaskier finished with Geralt’s name on his tongue and Geralt, biting hard enough to leave a bruise, came inside him only a few thrusts later.

Geralt’s hips slowed, but he didn’t stop fucking into Jaskier until Jaskier’s body fell limp against Geralt’s. Jaskier’s fingers threaded their way through Geralt’s hair again, reveling in the soft, silky locks just as much as he was reveling in his witcher.

They didn’t move again until the water had gone cold, and even then, it was only because Jaskier started shivering. Geralt tried to bundle Jaskier up, concern knitting his eyebrows, but Jaskier waved him off, instead toweling off the  _ witcher _ , much to Geralt’s chagrin. Jaskier would not be fussed over, not now, not when it was so clearly Geralt’s turn. Jaskier didn’t let Geralt bundle Jaskier into his arms until they were warmly tucked into bed, the fire in the hearth letting off a faint light that illuminated Geralt beautifully.

“Lark?” Jaskier questioned, a playful smile at his lips.

Geralt laughed into Jaskier’s neck, his shoulders lifting abashedly. “You wanted a nickname, didn’t you?”

Jaskier hummed, considering this. “Technically, I believe it’s more like a pet name, darling.” Geralt let out a breath and Jaskier held back a laugh. “I love it.”

Geralt pulled away from Jaskier, lifting himself up on one arm and considering Jaskier. “It suits you,” he said, trailing the back of his fingers along Jaskier’s cheekbone. “My lark.”

Jaskier let his eyes flutter closed as Geralt caressed him. “My heart,” he mumbled in return.

And it was only fitting, only fair. Because Jaskier had given Geralt his own a long, long time ago.

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like i should apologize and let you all know that i LOVE yennefer. jaskier doesn't, though. had to be true to jaskier.
> 
> [you should come chill with me on tumblr](lesdemonium.tumblr.com)


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